The Last Post: Day by Day… Until Today.

So this is it. The last blog entry.

Regardless of the situation, I hate saying goodbye. And also, I’m very bad at it. I’m not bad at it because it’s so difficult. I’m usually not the one to stumble away, sobbing into my hands like a little boy whose Tonka truck was stepped on. I’m bad at it because it’s easy. What I find is that while most people create a ritual of saying goodbye, exchanging heartfelt words to one another, exchange letters, embrace for long periods of time, etc., my desire is to do it as quickly and cleanly as possible- like ripping a band-aid from an open wound. Maybe it’s my stoic Germanic roots, though my imaginary therapist would probably surmise that it’s somehow connected to a childhood of instability and constantly being uprooted. After which I would pay them two-hundred fifty imaginary dollars. If I could, when I say goodbye to someone for the last time, it would amount to a good, long hug/handshake/pat on the head (student), say thanks for everything, promise to stay in touch (that both only sometimes follow through with), and then say goodbye.

But that is not the Indonesian way. And it certainly isn’t the Banjarese one.

My goodbye, a two-week long process, started with me getting up in front of the school during upacara, the Monday flag ceremony and giving a speech to the whole school, after which one of my students came up and gave a speech to me on behalf of the school. And then I was presented with gifts and many, many photos were taken. And accepting many gifts, one of which was a large, fluffy stuffed pink rabbit. After that, I was taken to lunch by the English teachers, at which I gave another speech. I spent my final full week of teaching going around to each class, giving a farewell speech and having them write in my Memory Book. Some of my favorites were:

“You’re my Teacher AT USA. You’re no hair, you make me smile.”

“Dear Mr. Chris, Don’t forget Ass, Thank You!”

“Dear Mr. Chris, You is number one. I LOVE YOU Mr. Chris! I Like it you.”

and the unforgettable…

“Dear Mr. Chris, My name is Hendy. You are handsome BUT you more handsome if you have hair in your head.”

There was clearly a theme here. Accompanying them were some fantastic illustrations, and a few disturbing portraits which unintentionally made me appear like a serial killer. On the last day at my school, I said my last goodbyes, had probably close to 40-50 photos taken of me, shook hands and was asked to be part of a few dozen selfies. And then I rode off on trusted motorbike down Jl. Soetoyo for the last time. And then silence. Even though I wouldn’t fly out for a few more days, it was almost as if with the dog-and-pony show over, there was no need to get in touch with me again and my phone remained silent. This was a strange sensation, even for someone like me who avoids long goodbyes. It something I’ve never completely understood about people I’ve met during my time here: initial friendliness followed by a lack of communication.

Fortunately, this wasn’t entirely the case. My host family took me to one of their favorite Chinese restaurants and presented me with a sasirangang (local batik design) shirt and we said our goodbyes. I went to some of places I’d frequented during the last nine months, said goodbyes and presented them with oleh-oleh (small gifts). One of the more touching moments was when I was told someone was outside my house wanting to talk to me. I opened it up and to my surprise, found my friendly coconut seller outside with her youngest son. She had asked around and figured out where I lived. After saying our final goodbyes, she sheepishly pulled out something from her pocket and handed me a ring made from Borneo Red, a valuable local stone. I felt loved, humbled and embarrassed all at the same. I hope one day to be half as generous as her.

Last night, I had my final meal with Mitch, my snarky and completely irreplaceable site mate, at Sakuro our go-to restaurant for Chinese noodles, but more importantly, forbidden ice-cold Bintangs. Today, I say goodbye to my host family and fly to Jakarta for a brief exit conference. And then I return to Brooklyn to finish grad (literally one more class left), start teaching high school history (job pending), and start a new chapter in life.

Before I do that, one last thing to say. Whether you interacted with me through this blog by furthering topics via email, left comments, or simply by being a blip on my readership stats, I wouldn’t have continued it without knowing there were people outside of my immediate environment who cared enough about what I was learning and experiencing during these last nine months in South Borneo to actually take the time to read this. Or just click on my site and scan the first few sentences (I do that a lot). So thank you- I mean it. I titled this blog Hari Demi Hari, which means Day By Day in Indonesian. And this is the last day.

Thanks for seeing it through to the end with me.

5 Ways Indonesia Has Changed Me

“No, it dog. Please, you must try!”

That blog post feels like years ago. If you don’t know which one I’m referring to, It’s not hard find. Just look for the one that includes “Eating Dog” in the title. I still recall that night vividly- I clearly remember thinking, “what the @#$!? did I get myself into?!” It’s hard to believe that was seven months ago. And it’s harder to believe that in two months, I will uproot my life here Banjarmasin and, like a transplanted sapling, settle my roots back down in Brooklyn.

A part of me is excited for this. I’ve missed the friendships, conveniences (aka solid WiFi connection) and luxuries (aka Netflix) of My American Life. But I already know there are things here I’ll miss about My Indonesian One. Fresh coconuts. My hilarious, Korean-boy-band-loving English club. Playing badminton twice a week. Lazy rainy days in my hammock. Seriously though, fresh coconuts. My coconut lady already told me that when I return to the States, she’ll cry (I’m steady revenue). In all honesty, some aspects of my time here have been difficult as well. Regardless, they’ve all been formative. With this in mind, I’ve been recently reflecting on the way my time in Banjarmasin has changed me.

1. I Don’t Mind Students Touching Me Constantly

In Indonesia, there is a custom in which after class ends, the students rise up enmasse and descend upon the lone teacher, clutching at his or hand, pressing it up against their sweating forehead, cheek, or mouth. I may or may not have experienced tongue on a few occasions. At first, this made me rather uncomfortable. First off, the germ-sharing in this transaction must be off the charts. Secondly, coming from a self-professed egalitarian society, there felt something weirdly servile about the whole thing. Not to mention that in NY looking at a student the wrong way is justification enough for a lawsuit. These days, I don’t mind it. In fact, I enjoy it. I think what changed was a shift in my perception: Indonesian society is based on the value of deference to those elder or in authority, and this custom was a built-in mechanism to ensure that it remained so. In fact, maybe I should take it back to the States and see how it goes.

2. I Consciously Eat and Handle Things With My Right Hand

Before you think this unimportant, you should understand: I’m left-handed. Not simply physically, but ideologically as well. I am the one who as a student, verbally assaulted teachers who perpetuated the right-hand bias by failing to provide left-handed desks. Ok, that’s not entirely true but it definitely annoyed me. However, in Indonesia left-handers are generally looked upon as handicapped. In fact, to eat or hand an object to someone with your left hand is considered offensive. Several of my Indonesian friends described to me how as children they were force-taught to favor their right. There are cultural and religious origins for this social norm. Culturally, many Muslim societies follow the tradition of eating with your right hand and, well, assisting in the defecation process with the left. This originated from passages found in all of the Abrahamic texts in which the “right hand” is considered holy and the left, by default, not.

Frankly, it bothered me initially. Probably more than it really should have. Even though no one was forcing me to use my right hand, it all felt like an affront on my identity as a left-hander. I even made a point to use my left hand, possibly with the motive of making use of one’s left hand acceptable. An ambassador of Left Hand, so to speak. And then I started to use my right. Why? Because it wasn’t my place to change culture norms here and to their credit, no one was coercing me to conform. So conform I did. but not in a way that felt like I was compromising a part of me, but rather temporarily setting it aside out of respect for another’s customs.

3. I Put Rice On My Plate Before I Even Know What The Meal Is

Having been born and raised in SE Asia, I ate my fair share of rice, usually once or twice a day. And then I moved Indonesia. This has ratcheted my intake up to a fairly solid regime of rice at every meal. And when it’s not rice, it’s usually a rice variety, such as longtong (rice packed tightly into steamed in leaves). On most days, this isn’t a problem because I love rice. My friends can attest to the fact that in college, I even wrote a song about my rice love affair which my band Smooth Grooves played as a closer. I’ll be honest though- I’m looking forward to pasta.

4. I’ve Made Peace With Selfies

“Mister, can we take selfie?” This is question that students, other teachers, friends, strangers, children of said strangers have asked me since I got off the plane. I used to resent it. I did so because frankly, I felt objectified, like a weird, exotic bird. I could hear the prior conversation to them asking: “Hey look, there’s a bule (foreigner)! Who brought their phone? Let’s go take a picture with it. It’s just so… white!” In fact, there are an untold number of selfies that were never taken because I said the unthinkable: tidak (no). But now, I don’t put a fight. In fact, I’ll even throw up a peace sign. Am I being objectified? Yeah, probably. But in the friendly sense of the term.

5. I’m OK With Not Having Weekend Plans (And Don’t Feel Like a Social Outcast)

In the past, by Wednesday I would be thinking “Hey, what am I doing this weekend? I really need to make some calls.” By Thursday, panic set in with, “OK really, what am I doing?!” and Friday was like, “It’s happened again. I will resign my social guilt by binging on Netflix and pizza (man, I miss pizza). And then Indonesia happened. At first, there were a flood of invitations every weekend. By the second month, that flood had receded to a trickle. And now, unless I make calls- nothing. And I’ve learned to enjoy it. The solitude, the time reading in my hammock, the introspection. It’s not how I anticipated my time here being but I’ve grown to embrace these still rhythms of life. But don’t worry Brooklyn people- I still plan to have fun carousing with you when I return!